Mal Foy
by Celandine Brandybuck
Summary: Historical fiction, on the origin of one wizarding family in England. Work in progress, currently on hiatus.
1. Arrival

**1. Arrival**

Extract from the chronicle kept at St. Brigid's abbey, Oakley, Wiltshire. _A.D. 1066. This year died King Edward, and Harold the earl succeeded to the kingdom, and held it forty weeks and one day. And this year came William, and won England. And in this year Christ-Church was burned. And this year appeared a comet on the fourteenth before the kalends of May. And this year died Osmund our lord, who fought for king Harold and was slain by an arrow to the great heaviness of his family, and his lands were taken into the hand of King William and given to the Norman knight Ancel._

* * *

The air was cool and damp and the westering sun glinted through the clouds into Ancel's eyes as he came to the top of a rise in the road. "I suppose that's the place," he said to his man-at-arms, reining in to take a good look at this first of his new manors here in England.

"Yes, m'lord," agreed Hamo, halting a neck-length behind and to his left. "Ten miles from Wilton, they said, is Swinbroke, and we'd see the stream disappearing into the wood, with a mill on the south side. This must be it."

Ancel nodded absently, absorbing what he saw. He would want to be sure the mill was in good repair, and that the steward kept a close eye on the miller. Only half the receipts of the mill went to the lord of Swinbroke; the second part was owned by the church of St. Frideswide in Oxford. The woodland was sufficient to the manor; forty acres of it to five hides of ploughland and seventy acres of meadow and pasture. The peasants' payments of pannage to let their pigs roam among the trees all year should make a tidy sum; that without considering that the trees were a good resource if and when he needed to rebuild the hall. Which he should go to look at first, since he had been informed that the steward would be on this manor. If the man seemed competent and willing to be loyal to a new master, Ancel intended to keep him in service. That would be far easier than sending back to his estates in Normandy for someone who would not know the local language or customs in any case.

Come to think of it, he hoped he could make himself understood. He had learned a little of the barbarous English tongue in the past several months, but only a little. If he was in luck the steward would understand Latin; it was beyond hope that he would speak good Norman French.

They rode on past stubbled fields, and some plowed afresh and sown with winter wheat. In the distance Ancel saw two teams of scrubby oxen at work, men with goads behind them urging them on. Scattered blots of dirty white on the hillside were sheep grazing on the first of the spring growth. Ancel approved. Clearly his predecessor's steward knew what he was about.

When they had passed through the village that straggled by the stream – children coming to gaze curiously at the finely-dressed strangers – and halted in the yard before the hall, he sent Hamo to find the steward, who a servant told them was down at the mill. Waiting, he walked around the outbuildings and then entered the hall itself. No better than Ancel had expected, but well-kept, with trestles stacked neatly and green cloth hangings on the walls. He stood near the fire pit in the center of the large room, warming himself.

"Sir, here's the steward," Hamo said from the doorway. "Ketel is his name."

Much to Ancel's relief, Ketel spoke passable Latin, though with some strange words thrown in that Ancel assumed to be English.

"I had word that you would be arriving some time this week, my lord, and I am at your service. If you wish I will be happy to take you to see your other three manors as well; I was in charge of all four for sir Osmund who held them before. . ." Ketel trailed off.

"Before, yes. I believe that family had been here for some generations?"

"Yes, sir. At least eight generations, so I was told. But such are the fortunes of war, as they say, and I'm prepared to work hard for a fair master," said Ketel, looking squarely at Ance.

The Norman was startled by such blunt speech, but inclined his head in acceptance. "Tell me a bit about the other three manors. I'll begin to look over Swinbroke today, the others later."

"Well, there's Clerebroke, Springhill, and Long Plumwod. At Clerebroke is where sir Osmund's wife has been living since word came of the deaths, first of young Alfward up at Stamford Bridge, and then sir Osmund himself at Hastings. But the lady Mildthryth knows you're to hold the estates, sir, and she's prepared to leave now that you're here."

"Any other children?" asked Ancel sharply.

Ketel cocked his head slightly. "A daughter, sir, called Estrild, but she is off in the north somewhere, visiting her mother's kin, I believe. I suppose her mother will join her there. No other close relations, not that I ever heard. Neither sir Osmund nor his father Eadred had any brothers or sisters that lived to grow up."

"Good," murmured Ancel to himself. Aloud he said, "Take me to the mill here now. You can tell me more about the manors as we go."

"Let me give orders first to make all ready for your stay, sir," said Ketel, "since it is nearly time for vespers and dusk will come soon."

"Very well," Ancel said.

Over the next fortnight he became acquainted with his new properties as well as his new steward. Ketel gave every appearance of being reliable and honest; he was able to read and write, though only in English, but Ancel went through the accounts that Ketel had kept for his late lord and was favorably impressed.

He did not see the widow Mildthryth when at Clerebroke. Instead he sent her a message that if she did not wish to journey far to the north at this season, she could remain until warmer weather brought drier roads – a gesture that surprised his steward, Ancel could tell, but Ketel did not know all that Ancel did. She returned thanks for the kind offer without indicating whether she would accept it.

Sitting by the fire back at Swinbroke late one evening, Ancel inquired if there was anything else of urgent importance concerning his lands that he had not yet learned.

"Two things I can thing of, sir, though they ought not to be spoken of together, in a way," said Ketel.

"Well, what is the first?"

"When I was showing you around Swinbroke, I didn't take you to the far side of the wood, up on the ridge above, you recall."

Ancel thought about it. "No, you did not. I didn't even realize that was part of the manor."

"Oh, it is, sir, but not a part much taken note of, not by us. It's said to be ill-luck to go up there." Ketel laughed unconvincingly.

"Why ill-luck?" asked Ancel.

Ketel shifted on the bench and swallowed a gulp of ale. "Well, because of the stones. They say that sheep that go in between the stones never come out again. And once or twice not just a sheep, but the shepherd himself has disappeared."

"Stones? A circle of stones?"

"Yes, that's right. Not as big as those ten miles or so off to the east of here, but bigger than this hall. How do you know, sir?"

"I have seen such standing stones in Brittany and Normandy, too," said Ancel, keeping his voice calm though his pulse was racing with excitement. In responding to his message of last December, his wife Avice had been less than enthusiastic about the prospect of visiting these new English manors, although she agreed that it would be good to increase their holdings and status. But to have a henge on their own estates – she would certainly wish to come now. "I have heard similar superstitions there, but the fellow who supposedly disappeared in one of those circles was found six years later in Rouen, working as a tanner's apprentice. So much for rumor and superstition."

"If you say so, sir," said Ketel doubtfully, "but I'll warn you that no one here will be willing to pasture sheep up there, neither theirs nor yours. At most, in a bad season, they'll cut hay from around the circle, but not within it."

"I am duly warned," Ancel said. He was pleased that it sounded most unlikely that anyone would wander past when he visited the henge. "And what was the other matter you thought I should know?"

Ketel looked relieved to shift to a different topic. "Ah, that's to do with the monastery at Oakley. It's in one of the account-books, one I didn't have a chance to show you today. What it is, is that the income of Long Plumwod has been used to endow the monastery, so the receipts go there, not to you, I fear."

"So a group of monks get the revenues, not I? King William did not make me aware of this, nor the scribe who wrote out the grant," said Ancel with some heat.

"Well, not quite. It's all a bit muddled, in fact, sir. As best I understand it, old sir Leofgeat – he was sir Osmund's great-grandfather – only granted the monastery that income for five lifetimes of his family. Now with both sir Osmund and Alfward dead, those five lives are up, so the income should come to you again, unless you decide to continue the grant. If I may be so bold, sir, the monks at St. Brigid's are well thought of, saying prayers as they do not just for Leofgeat and all his family, but for all those on the estates as well. And in bad years they help those in need nearby; my cousin Leoba who lives in Oakley told me of it. The abbot is a good man, she says. I'm sure he would hope to speak to you before you make any decision on the matter."

Ancel sighed inwardly. He had no great interest in the Church, and he could use the income himself, but he had better at least go to see this popular abbot. Unfortunately he had sent Hamo off to Wilton several days before. The other man's English was rather better than his own, and Ancel wanted him to make some discreet inquiries about the family of Osmund. He had received certain useful information already, but Hamo himself had not yet returned, so Ancel would have to go to Oakley alone.

He rode north, over several rolling hills, then eastward on a narrow lane the few more miles to Oakley. St. Brigid's abbey was small, supporting only six monks and their abbot Petrus, so Ketel had explained the previous night. But it had two fine stone buildings inside its own walled enclosure at the edge of Oakley, a church to the saint and a second that served as both dormitory and refectory where the monks slept and ate. The kitchen, barn, and other outbuildings were ordinary cruck-built edifices, with wattle and daub forming the walls between the great timbers. Ancel knew that the revenues from Long Plumwod were perhaps fifty shillings annually; the monastery must have had other donations to enable such substantial constructions.

Reaching the locked gate, he shouted until one of the monks came to let him in. At this late morning hour, Ancel found the abbot not – as he might have expected – in either the church or dormitory, but instead in the kitchen garden, preparing it for winter. A polished rod perhaps a handspan and a half long rested on the ground next to him, and as he rose Petrus casually tucked the object away into his sleeve before greeting his visitor courteously.

"Sir Ancel? I am very glad you have come to speak to me in person. St. Brigid's is a most worthy establishment; I hope to persuade you to continue supporting us."

"I don't think you need to worry about that any more, Petrus," said Ancel, his pale blue eyes looking almost white in the cool sunlight. He glanced about to ensure that none of the other monks were in view, and made a small gesture with his left hand.

Petrus blinked.

"You should be more careful of your wand, you know," Ancel admonished him. "What if one of your monks saw it?"

"What if. . ." Petrus laughed in half-swallowed gasps. "Ah, my dear sir Ancel, you have not realized. This is probably the only entirely wizarding monastery in England."


	2. St Brigid's Abbey

**2. St. Brigid's Abbey**

Now it was Ancel's turn to blink in surprise. "An all-wizard monastery?"

"Oh, yes," Petrus assured him. "Discreetly, of course. But it is really very congenial to live in such an establishment, much to be preferred over an ordinary monastery. Several of our present monks first took their vows elsewhere, and from what they have told me they found it difficult to keep their abilities secret. But come" He turned and beckoned Ancel to follow him to the dormitory building.

A young monk was sitting on a chest, directing a broom to sweep the stone floor. At a word from Petrus he departed and left the two men alone. The monks' cots and chests were clustered to the left-hand side of the door by which they had entered; to the right were a pair of high tables strewn with inkpots, quills, and leaves of parchment and vellum. At the far end of the large room was a long table, evidently where the monks ate. A door behind that led to the kitchen building outside, Ancel surmised. Petrus led him down to the dining table and sat upon one of the benches. Ancel joined him.

"We have no servants, you see," Petrus picked up the thread of conversation, "which serves a double purpose. The bishop thinks well of us for adhering to St. Benedict's rules for monastic life, and there is no one about most of the time to witness anything odd. With the wall and the gate, none may enter the grounds uninvited, though there are days when we let the gate stand open to the village, for the sake of maintaining a cordial relationship with its inhabitants."

"I suppose you don't need servants all that much," said Ancel, "since without them you can use your magic openly amongst yourselves."

"Most of the time, anyway. As I said, we do sometimes allow the local folk in, and we have to be careful then. But with a bit of effort it all works out, and St. Brigid's has a tradition of only accepting novices who are of age – another matter that the bishop appreciates – and already trained in magic, so they understand what they cannot do. We've never had any trouble."

"Trained, eh?" said Ancel. "Trained at home, I suppose?"

Petrus shook his head. "Some, of course, but others have attended a wizarding school that was set up, oh, perhaps a century ago, up north. It bears the peculiar name of Hogwarts; I don't know what my grandmother's cousin was thinking of, but Rowena was supposed to have always been an odd duck. Perhaps she and the other school founders thought that its strangeness would help people to remember not to mention it, or if they did, to keep Muggles from realizing that it was a school and trying to get their own sons admitted to it. I don't know."

On hearing this, Ancel thought immediately of his own family. At eighteen, Geoffrey had already learned a good deal from his parents, and was unlikely to want further instruction, but thirteen-year-old Baldwin and nine-year-old Herleva were another matter. "Is this Hogwarts place for boys only, then?" he asked.

"No, no. It was founded by a pair each of wizards and witches, and both boys and girls are permitted to attend. Your predecessor's daughter Estrild is there," said Petrus. "You must have realized by now that given their foundation of St. Brigid's, the family of Osmund is another wizarding family like your own."

"I had suspected as much," Ancel said. Those suspicions, indeed, were what had led him to send Hamo to Wilton, to see if there were any rumors in the town to that effect. Many wizards were less cautious about hiding their abilities when away from home and less known. "Astonishing coincidence, isn't it, that I should have received his estates. There aren't that many of us about."

Petrus winked at him. "Who assigned those particular manors to you, sir Ancel?"

"Why, King William. Or – no – he simply said I should receive estates of a certain value. It was his secretary Robert who... you mean Robert is one of us? I've known him for years, and he never... How do you know him to be a wizard, Petrus, and he a Norman and you an English monk buried in the country?" demanded Ancel.

"I know every witch and wizard, or nearly so, in these islands, Normandy, and Brittany too," said Petrus complacently. "Someone has to keep track of all the wizarding families." He indicated the shelves that crowded the wall behind the writing tables, stuffed with codices and scrolls in varying states of repair and legibility. "It's all there, going back a thousand years and more. That's why we had to ensure this building was stone, to lessen the risk of fire; but we couldn't have a stone dormitory without a stone church, it would have looked odd to the Muggles. The first abbot, my great-granduncle Gregory, spent most of his life wheedling gold from all the better-off wizarding families to do it. Promised them copies of their own ancestry, mostly, those who were interested in such things."

"I see," said Ancel slowly, his head whirling. Here was a potential stroke of very good luck indeed. If he had access to records of all the wizard families in the British Isles, over time what alliances could his family not make? But best to move slowly in such matters. "Tell me something of Osmund's family, if you would. My elder son is reaching an age where I need to consider a betrothal for him."

"And you're thinking of Osmund's daughter, of course," guessed Petrus. "Very well. It's an old family, certainly. Lived in these parts as far back as my records go and doubtless longer. No especially notable wizards or witches in it, but respectable... mostly." He did not feel it necessary to tell this Norman wizard everything about the family at Swinbroke, not now, and some of those stories about the use of Dark Magic might have been exaggerated in any case. Luckily only other wizards were aware of those rumors. "Good at being discreet, using magic to maintain and improve their position but not so much that any Muggle ever noticed anything unusual in that way. Now I will say that Mildthryth, she came from away to marry Osmund and she's a bit touchy, but I think you can convince her that this would be a good match for the girl. She has sense where it counts," he concluded.

Ancel smiled. "Excellent. There are no wizarding families near my home in Normandy with daughters of a suitable age; none who are of appropriate standing, at any rate. And while I'd marry my son off to a peasant witch before I gave him to a Muggle prince's daughter, this is a far better prospect. My fellows in the king's service will not find it at all odd that Geoffrey should marry an English girl if she's the daughter of the old lord of the manor."

They talked then for a time about the wizarding school to the north. While Petrus had not attended it himself, explaining that he had been sickly as a boy and his mother had feared to send him so far, with his family connections to the place he was able to give Ancel a good deal of information about it. Ancel concluded that he should go and speak with those who ran Hogwarts about sending Baldwin there, and Herleva in a year or two. But he would wait to do that until he had paid another visit to lady Mildthryth and secured her agreement to the idea of betrothing their children; then he could carry that message to her daughter and achieve two purposes with one journey.

Later, Petrus showed him around the monastery's buildings and gardens. "We have some additional property as well, given to us over the years by both wizarding and Muggle patrons, but the income from Long Plumwod is still the basis of our support," he hinted. The bell in the campanile next to the church rang just then. "Would you like to join us in the church, as we pray the hour of sext? We take our dinner just afterward."

Ancel followed the abbot into the church and listened as the men sang and prayed, but did not join in. In the refectory afterward, he adhered to the monks' custom of silence at meals. The food was simple, but satisfying: bread, ale, and a vegetable stew. He missed having cheese or meat, however.

When dinner and the prayers for none were over, Ancel sought out Petrus for further conversation before he departed. "It's a well-run place, St. Brigid's, I must say. But I am curious. How can you and the others stand to live as monks, following all the Christian rituals? After all, the Church's position is that witches and wizards should not be suffered to live. How on earth can you endure being part of an organization that would condemn you if it learned what you really are?"

"I don't believe everything the Church says," shrugged Petrus. He pulled his wand from his sleeve and brought two metal cups winging toward them, tapped each and filled it with wine before handing one to Ancel. "It's protective coloration. My family's duty is to preserve the history of our kind, and when it's only in the Church that record-keeping can be carried on without remark, why then, we must use the Church. You'll note that this monastery is dedicated to St. Brigid. She's called a saint, but you and I both know that she was really a witch herself, something true of only a handful of these Christian so-called saints. Old sir Leofgeat and my kinsman Gregory knew what they were about in choosing her as their patroness."

Ancel acknowledged the sense in that, but persisted, "Still, how can you bear the hypocrisy? When the Church condemns magic, and then pretends to practice it by turning wine to blood and bread to flesh? Not that they succeed, thankfully," he added, shuddering.

"I ignore it," said Petrus. "That's all I can do. God knows what is in our hearts, and I don't believe He condemns us for our inborn abilities. He would instead be displeased, I think, if we refused to use the gifts we have. Besides, Jesus himself was a wizard, you know. What some of his followers have done in his name doesn't alter that."

"Oh yes," he said in response to Ancel's look of disbelief. "It's all in the records."

"But I thought you said you only kept records for this part of the world," said Ancel.

"True enough, but a few years back I traveled down through France and Italy, giving it out that I was going on pilgrimage, of course. I did visit some shrines along the way, but my real purpose was to meet with other wizarding archivists; nearly every one of them from throughout Europe and around the Mediterranean came. The keeper of the records from Palestine was there, and he brought copies of the first-century genealogies of that region. Jesus of Nazareth was definitely of wizarding stock, and so were at least two of his disciples, including Mary Magdalen. Why, man, you could guess that from the stories they tell of him in the Bible – just think of the so-called miracle of the loaves and fishes, for instance. Clearly a simple Refilling Charm on the baskets.

"Now, I certainly don't believe that the man was God in human form. If the bishop heard that he'd haul me up for heresy; Arianism was condemned at the Council of Nicaea, centuries ago. But I think Arius was right and that worshiping a human, any human, is wrong. So I worship God, but not Jesus, and no Muggle priest or bishop has noticed yet. On the other hand, I have no difficulty in respecting a fellow wizard, especially one who helped others and had the bad luck to get caught up in a political squabble and got killed for it. Moreover, if we hope to change the official views of the Church on magic, we'll have to work from the inside. Hiding works all right, but it would be better if we didn't have to. It keeps us hidden from each other as well as from the Muggles, too often."

Remembering how he had not recognized the king's servant Robert as a fellow wizard, Ancel had to agree with that practicality of approach at least. He was not wholly convinced by Petrus's statements; not that he thought the man had been deceived, but thinking of Jesus as a wizard instead of the Muggle charlatan he had long considered him would take substantial rearrangement of his own understanding.

By now it was late afternoon, nearly time for Petrus to attend vespers, and in any case Ancel needed to leave in order to reach Swinbroke again before dark. The same monk who had admitted him was sent to bring his horse, and as he waited, Petrus said delicately, "About the grant of revenues, sir Ancel?"

"Ever-practical, aren't you?" said Ancel. "I can appreciate that. I'll extend the charter for three lifetimes of my family, Petrus. St. Brigid's is safe. Draw up the document and bring it to me at Swinbroke next week; I'll sign it and seal it, my steward and man-at-arms can be witnesses. And when you're there, you can tell me whatever you may know about the henge on my land. I hadn't the time for that today, but I'm curious about it."

He swung up onto his horse and departed, the lowering sun making his fair hair appear almost red as he rode away. Abbot Petrus remained standing in the opened gateway, a slight frown upon his face as he watched the knight's figure diminish into the distance.

"Abbot?"

"Yes, Thomas?" Petrus pulled himself back to the daily concerns of his monks. A week was not long. When next he saw sir Ancel would be soon enough to warn him about the henge.


End file.
